Cool On Your Island

So I went on my first date in New York City.  Or was it a date?  Time-out called on the playing field: when did “hanging out” replace good old-fashioned dating?  I’ve learned the hard way though that in the aughts, one ought to maintain a sense of mystery at first.  Consequently, I’ve “hung out” with a lot of women.

We met at the Cubby Hole, a familiar bar in Greenwich Village.  She’s a friend of a friend, and also happens to be gay and single in Manhattan.  As I approached the location, I sent her a text: “this is the part where I realize I don’t know what you look like.”  As I sent up my flare on Verizon wings, I spotted a tall, slender blonde leaning up against the outdoor patio railing.  She was toting an iPhone, but I decided not to hold this against her, since she looked like Scarlet Johansen.  “Please let it be Scarlet, please let it be Scarlet,” I thought to myself.  My cosmic Magic 8 Ball read: Outlook Good.

Scarlet and I bar hopped, fitting in a trip to the famous Stonewall Inn, considered the birthplace of the gay rights movement.  We walked a lot–that damn iPhone GPS really showed us a good time. I explained I used to work on behalf of that other computer company.  Scarlet didn’t seem to mind.  She even let me talk her into a cupcake at Magnolia Bakery when we just happened to walk by it (without Steve Jobs telling us where it was.)

I made pathetic attempts at flirting throughout the evening.  During the late night stroll to the subway stops, I convinced myself she wasn’t interested.  Then, in the glow of the Metro light, she said she had a really fun time and suggested we see each other again this coming Saturday night.  I smiled and descended down the stairs, Brooklyn bound.  Now that sounds like a date.